February Heat. Wilson Roberts

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      “I don’t do drug deals.”

      She continued as though I had not spoken. “You know this island. I need your help getting around and I’ll hire you to protect me.”

      I glared at her, furious at myself for being taken in. A package switch at a small airport in the Caribbean could only mean one thing. The interesting woman who said she needed a little help was just another part of an endless chain of island drug smugglers. There was no other explanation.

      Starting toward the door, I fell into my hardass film noir act. “Forget it lady. This isn’t my style. Look, I’m no Joe Pure. I’ve done a little weed in my time, even grew some, but St. Ursula is no place for drug dealers. They lock them up in Her Majesty’s Prison for a lot of years, and let me tell you, Her Majesty’s Prison is a hell-hole where they feed you gruel and flog you for minor infractions of rules which are made up by the guards to keep themselves from dying of boredom.”

       She moved quickly across the room, blocking the door. Again, our eyes met and she reached toward me, taking my hand between hers.

      “I didn’t say anything about drugs.”

      “You don’t have to. Picking up a package the way you’ve just described it and getting shot at spells drugs.”

      “Do I look like someone who’d be involved with drugs?”

      I shrugged. “I’ve known drug dealers that look like dentists, plumbers, housewives, babysitters, cops, anything but drug dealers and druggies.”

      “I’m not like that; this situation isn’t like that.”

      I shrugged again. “Did someone really try to kill you earlier?”

      “And I asked if you think I look like a drug dealer.”

      I exhaled, tense with anger. “I don’t care what you look like. I’m sure you are one.”

      She smiled. “Good. I’m glad you wondered about me. I’d be in trouble with someone naive on my side.”

      “I’m not on your side.”

      “You will be when you hear my story.”

      “I like a good story, but don’t expect me to buy it.”

      Still holding my hand, she pulled me to the middle of the room. “Somebody did try to kill me.”

      With a small sarcastic chuckle to let her know I wasn’t going to easily believe her, I allowed her to continue.

       “Ten minutes before I called you I woke up and had to pee. I never turn the lights on when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. If I do I have a hell of a time getting back to sleep. While I was in there I heard the door to the other room open. Then there were three sounds, you know, fa-whump fa-whump fa-whump, just like the sound from silencers on guns in the movies. Then the door closed and I came out, looked at the holes in my bed and called you.”

      She led me across the room to the bed, pulled back the covers and pointed to three small holes with burn marks around them. Using my Swiss Army knife I dug around in the mattress and found the lead slugs embedded in it. She was lucky it was her first night on St. Ursula and she still peed in the dark. A few more nights in the islands and she would have turned the lights on to make sure there were no scorpions or tarantulas skittering across the floor.

      I dropped the covers and shook my head, the slugs lying in my hand, resting together like small, oddly shaped pebbles. Jamming them into my pocket, I breathed regularly and deeply.

      “So, you say it’s not drugs. What are you into?”

      “I can’t tell you, but I need help. I mean I really need your help, Frank.”

      There was no trace of pleading in her voice, just a straightforward request for help. I shook my head, but I liked the way she was approaching me. I like strong women. They’re not black holes sucking all light and energy from people around them. Too many people run around yelling ‘fill me up,’ ‘make me whole,’ ‘help me, I’m a victim.’ They’re exhausting. Sometimes they’re hard to spot because they’ve managed to substitute the trappings of success for their need of light and substance from other people.

      Liz was in trouble. She needed help. But she was no black hole.

      I returned to the chair, collapsed in it, my arms dangling over the sides, my feet stretched out straight.

      Life on St. Ursula was good. I enjoyed my house on the bluff, the sounds of the ocean mingling with those from the creatures in the surrounding bush. I had all the time I wanted to write poetry, play my guitar, and walk the beaches with Rumble. Whenever I felt like it I could drive into town, have a few beers and hang out with other ex-pats and locals. Until I came to the islands I hadn’t felt so free since I was thirteen and my father made me take a job helping an undertaker friend of his dig graves. From then on my life had been school, college, back-breaking summer jobs in the tobacco fields of western Massachusetts and Connecticut, and finally selling insurance.

      The island was the perfect place for me. It was warm year round; the booze was cheap and I was surrounded by incredible natural beauty. Even better, I had no responsibilities beyond those I placed upon myself. I was free to do whatever I wanted to do, as long as I watched my investments and didn’t overspend my profits. Sometimes things got a little tight, but I never had to worry about paying the mortgage or the source of my next meal.

      Still, I was bored.

      Lonely.

      Spending time in bars with other people, laughing, singing, and playing darts is a fine thing, but life can be off whack when that becomes central. Aside from Chance, I had no close friends, just a good group of warm acquaintances.

      I looked at Liz Ford. She was lovely. There was no immediate irresistible electricity of sexual tension between us. She was just lovely. Her skin was smooth, her features clear, straight. The corners of her eyes were slightly crinkled, and those green eyes were sharp and clear, even when brimming with unshed tears.

      Her demeanor attracted me the most. I liked the way she was holding herself together in the face of what had just happened. She was not in any way a black hole.

      Making a pyramid with my thumbs and forefingers I raised my face to meet hers. “Tell me why I should help you.”

      She shrugged. “Because I need help.”

      I shook my head, making my lips narrow into straight lines. “That’s not enough.”

      She frowned, sighing. “Because lives depend on it.”

      I shook my head again. “Whose lives? Why do they depend on it?”

      She moved toward me, sinuously, smiling, trying to look seductive. She wasn’t the type to pull it off and ended up looking like she was trying to look seductive. She was not practiced at it and she obviously didn’t enjoy trying to do it. We were both running out our versions of the hard act and neither one was fooling the other. Still, I let her continue. It was part of my hard act.

      “Because I think you’re attractive, Frank.”

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